Non-Challenge Fic: And I Say It's All Right (Harry, Hermione, others; PG)
Title: And I Say It's All Right
Author: Q (fic journal: transposition73)
Rating: PG
Length: ~1975 words
Summary: Post-war, Harry is at St. Mungo's. Hermione visits him.
Warnings: themes of mental illness
Disclaimer: Still not king JKR.
Author's Note: This has been sitting on my hard drive for a number of months, and I just felt the need to get it out there. This is a very personal fic to me; the characterization of Hermione and the events chronicled are very much a projection of my own experiences. I'd rather not say any more than that. Thanks and love and kisses to quidditchkiss for the once-over. ♥ Crossposted.
*Posted here for archiving purposes; please leave your feedback/comments here at my fic journal.
~
Little darling
It's been a long, cold, lonely winter
Little darling
It seems like years since it's been here
-- The Beatles, "Here Comes the Sun"
"Pass the potatoes, won't you dear?" Molly says, as if today were the same as a thousand other Sundays, as if everyone were around the table that ought to be.
She does so without focusing her eyes; it's been too much effort as of late. Ron rubs her knee under the table and for once, she doesn't feel the need to slap it away. She eats without realizing she's doing so, oblivious to the conversations whizzing around her head. Ginny excuses herself early to go upstairs to lie down, but she knows that's not what she's going to do. (She walked in on her three days ago and neither her touch nor her oh god ginny i'm so sorry i didn't realize i'm sorry i'm so so sorry would calm her.) Arthur starts talking about his work with Muggles, and everyone is fascinated by it, but she only fingers the hem of her dress and idly pokes at the peas on her plate.
After dinner, they sit around the fire and George breaks out the Butterbeer, and Bill makes a toast (to family!) and they all clink bottles. The first sip nearly makes her sick, and Ron has to practically carry her up the stairs and lay her out in his old bed. She falls asleep, but doesn't dream, and when she wakes up, it's pitch dark outside and Ron is beside her, snoring. She brushes the hair away from his temple and kisses him there before throwing back the covers and sitting cross-legged next to her overnight bag.
She pulls out a small wooden box, and whispers "melba toast" to it. It clicks open. The inside is lined with scarlet velvet, and it contains only three items: an empty, bent pair of wire glasses frames, a Golden Snitch with only one wing, and a photograph from her first year at Hogwarts. She stares at the picture for a long time, watching the three of them wave at her, young and innocent and care-free. She knows that the archway in the background is no longer there (she saw the explosion herself), but at least she's got documentation that it once existed. She closes the box and buries it back in her trunk. Crookshanks lumbers onto her lap, and she pets him, if only out of habit, as she stares out the window into the night sky.
*
"Harry? What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Harry. Ron might buy that, but I won't."
"It's just my scar. I'm sure it's nothing."
"What about your scar?"
"It just--it burns sometimes. Not like it used to, but."
"Harry, you should get it looked at."
"I'm fine! I told you, it's nothing."
*
She's never gone without Ron, but he had to go back to work eventually, so she goes alone. She could practically get there with her eyes closed, but she asks the kindly witch at the front desk if everything is still the same. She goes up, up, up to the Isolation Section on the Spell Damage floor. She knows one day he's going to be where Neville's parents were, but for now they still think they can help him--by keeping him away from everyone else. Oh, they let him out three times a day: to eat, to bathe, to attempt socialization, but he's really alone.
She waits outside the locked door, crossing her arms and pacing. An older couple is standing behind her, looking bewildered. She assumes they're Muggles.
The young wizard who opens the door addresses her by name, and checks her wand, even though he knows it like his own. He waves her in silently.
She finds his room mainly by feel, staring at her shoes the whole time. Twenty paces straight, ten to the right, three to the left. She stands on her toes to look in the window, and there he is, looking oddly naked without his glasses, sitting on his bed, staring at the wall. She taps the handle with her wand and it opens silently. Momentarily startled by the sudden movement in the room, he turns to her.
"Hello Hermione," he says after squinting at her for a brief second. He turns back to the wall and scratches at his scar absently.
She swallows and says, "Hi Harry."
*
"Hermione, I have to go."
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"If it was nothing you wouldn't have to leave in the middle of the night."
"Harry's scar is acting up again. Kingsley just flooed me."
"Oh. Be careful."
"'Mione, I'm going to check on my friend, not fight in some epic battle. Those days are behind us. I just want to make sure he's all right."
"Be careful anyway."
*
He drinks the tea she conjured for him without looking at her. "They let me have my glasses for an hour today, so I read a book," he says.
"Oh, Harry! Oh, that's wonderful! Tell me all about it." She's using her half-professor voice (the one everyone at the Ministry laughs at her for behind her back), but she's sure he won't mind.
"It was about abstract art. Do you know about abstract art?" He suddenly gives her one of his piercing looks, even though she knows he can't see her.
"Yes, Harry--"
"Abstract art is a Muggle thing. It was invented by a Muggle."
"I know, Harry--"
"It's like that painting with the burning cows, that's abstract art. It was invented by a Muggle."
"Yes, Harry, you said that alr--"
"Ron would know about abstract art."
She laughs despite herself. "I doubt Ron knows anything about abstract art, though if it has to do with burning cows, I think he'd like it."
He ignores her comment. "Do you know that painting? The one with the burning cows?"
"I can't say I do, Harry."
"Yes you do, Hermione." He glares at her again. "Ron knows about the burning cows, he told me you were going to see it on your honeymoon."
She sets her tea down slowly. She's used to his abruptness by now, but she's not quite sure how to handle it. "Harry, you know Ron and I aren't getting married--"
"Oh yes you are," he says, not taking his eyes off her. "He told me so. He said he had a ring with a tiny dragon inside the diamond and he was going to take you to Spain on your honeymoon. He said that Ginny was mad at me for not asking her to marry me."
She stares at him, open-mouthed. "Harry, when did Ron tell you this?"
He looks away. "I don't know," he says, and drains his cup.
*
"Hermione, would you want to wear a blue or green bridesmaid gown?"
"Ginny, if I were you, I wouldn't get my--"
"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport! I just know that we're going to get married and have lots and lots of--"
"Ginny, you know his scar's been hurting him?"
"Yes. So? He said it's nothing."
"I think it's a little more serious than he thinks."
"Well aren't you the smart one--"
"Ron thinks so too."
"...Roses! I think some nice roses would be just perfect, don't you?"
*
Ron is sitting at the kitchen table when she gets home after sunset, staring off into space, twirling a pencil between his fingers. The electric overhead lamp is abnormally bright, like the lights they use in police interrogation scenes in Muggle films her uncles used to watch when she was small. She sets her things on the counter, sits down next to him, and shuts off the light. She reaches out for Ron's free hand, and he gives it to her, willingly.
It's better this way, sitting in silence and in the dark, holding hands. She thinks how strange it is that darkness and silence are so closely related--not presences, but absences. Finally, Ron clears his throat and says, "How is he?"
"He's all right," she says, rubbing his hand with her thumb. "He asked for you."
He snorts. "Of course. He's used to me."
"He was talking about abstract art. Lost me about halfway through. Said you'd know all about it." She gives a half-hearted laugh.
"Well, we did go to that museum when we went to Spain last month. Saw this painting--a blue one. Artist's name started with a P. Pi--Picard. Pi--carey. Pi--"
"Picasso," she says, as though it were the first time she ever spoke the name in her life. "Guernica."
"Yes!" He is positively ecstatic. "Yes, that was it! That was--Hermione?"
She's left the table and is standing at the window, hand at her mouth. She doesn't want Ron to know she's crying, but he can tell, even in the moonlight.
"He went on about a burning cow, but I thought he was just talking nonsense. Oh God, I thought he was just going crazy."
He turns her around, holding her at the shoulders. "He is. But he's still Harry."
She collapses into his chest, and stares off into the darkness and the silence as her rocks her back and forth, back and forth.
*
"Hermione--Hermione, wake up. Hermione, we have to go."
"What time is it?"
"It doesn't matter. Just got an owl from Harry."
"What's wrong?"
"It's mainly nonsense, but I think he's in trouble."
"Let me see."
"Lumos!"
"Oh--oh God. Oh Ron, we have to go."
"That's what I said, now get your robes and come on."
*
She's worked out a whole schedule for who goes on what days: herself (and Ron, until now) on Monday, Kingsley on Tuesday, Fred (or George--though he can tell the difference somehow) on Wednesday, Molly on Thursday, Arthur on Friday, Ron alone on Saturday, and Luna on Sunday. (She secretly hopes that no one else ever wants to visit on Sundays because Luna is so good for him, she's seen it.) Others come and go, but she thinks he's come to count on those seven visits over the last four weeks.
Today is Tuesday. She hates going to work on Tuesdays, but she bites her tongue and sits at her desk and fills out the papers she needs to fill out. When people ask her how he is, she always says, "About the same," because it's true.
Kingsley usually goes on his lunch hour, so she's surprised when she feels his hand on her shoulder at half-past noon. She looks up from her work: he is tight-lipped and stony-faced.
"Hermione Granger," he says gravely. "Harry Potter wants you."
*
"You're the only one he'll listen to."
"Ronald, you flatter me."
"I'm serious, you and Luna. He doesn't listen to me anymore."
"I'm so sorry."
"I know he's in there somewhere, I just wish--I dunno."
"I know."
*
She runs up the corridor, nearly tripping on her robes, and there he is in the observation room, shouting WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA at the top of his lungs and pointing an imaginary wand around the room at imaginary objects. She watches him in shock for a moment, and then starts to laugh, hysterical and high-pitched. He hears her over his own shouting and grins, genuinely. This only makes her laugh harder, and she collapses on the floor.
A Mediwitch touches her gently on the shoulder, and she wipes tears from her eyes. Harry is still grinning at her, and he winks when he catches her eye again. She giggles one last giggle before the Mediwitch asks her, "What was that all about?"
She clears her throat. He steps out of the room on the arm of a very young, pretty witch, who hands him off to the Mediwitch. He takes a moment before he speaks, still grinning.
"There's a troll in the dungeon."
She takes his hand, then pulls him into a full hug, and she knows everything will be all right.
~
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Author: Q (fic journal: transposition73)
Rating: PG
Length: ~1975 words
Summary: Post-war, Harry is at St. Mungo's. Hermione visits him.
Warnings: themes of mental illness
Disclaimer: Still not king JKR.
Author's Note: This has been sitting on my hard drive for a number of months, and I just felt the need to get it out there. This is a very personal fic to me; the characterization of Hermione and the events chronicled are very much a projection of my own experiences. I'd rather not say any more than that. Thanks and love and kisses to quidditchkiss for the once-over. ♥ Crossposted.
*Posted here for archiving purposes; please leave your feedback/comments here at my fic journal.
~
Little darling
It's been a long, cold, lonely winter
Little darling
It seems like years since it's been here
-- The Beatles, "Here Comes the Sun"
"Pass the potatoes, won't you dear?" Molly says, as if today were the same as a thousand other Sundays, as if everyone were around the table that ought to be.
She does so without focusing her eyes; it's been too much effort as of late. Ron rubs her knee under the table and for once, she doesn't feel the need to slap it away. She eats without realizing she's doing so, oblivious to the conversations whizzing around her head. Ginny excuses herself early to go upstairs to lie down, but she knows that's not what she's going to do. (She walked in on her three days ago and neither her touch nor her oh god ginny i'm so sorry i didn't realize i'm sorry i'm so so sorry would calm her.) Arthur starts talking about his work with Muggles, and everyone is fascinated by it, but she only fingers the hem of her dress and idly pokes at the peas on her plate.
After dinner, they sit around the fire and George breaks out the Butterbeer, and Bill makes a toast (to family!) and they all clink bottles. The first sip nearly makes her sick, and Ron has to practically carry her up the stairs and lay her out in his old bed. She falls asleep, but doesn't dream, and when she wakes up, it's pitch dark outside and Ron is beside her, snoring. She brushes the hair away from his temple and kisses him there before throwing back the covers and sitting cross-legged next to her overnight bag.
She pulls out a small wooden box, and whispers "melba toast" to it. It clicks open. The inside is lined with scarlet velvet, and it contains only three items: an empty, bent pair of wire glasses frames, a Golden Snitch with only one wing, and a photograph from her first year at Hogwarts. She stares at the picture for a long time, watching the three of them wave at her, young and innocent and care-free. She knows that the archway in the background is no longer there (she saw the explosion herself), but at least she's got documentation that it once existed. She closes the box and buries it back in her trunk. Crookshanks lumbers onto her lap, and she pets him, if only out of habit, as she stares out the window into the night sky.
*
"Harry? What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Harry. Ron might buy that, but I won't."
"It's just my scar. I'm sure it's nothing."
"What about your scar?"
"It just--it burns sometimes. Not like it used to, but."
"Harry, you should get it looked at."
"I'm fine! I told you, it's nothing."
*
She's never gone without Ron, but he had to go back to work eventually, so she goes alone. She could practically get there with her eyes closed, but she asks the kindly witch at the front desk if everything is still the same. She goes up, up, up to the Isolation Section on the Spell Damage floor. She knows one day he's going to be where Neville's parents were, but for now they still think they can help him--by keeping him away from everyone else. Oh, they let him out three times a day: to eat, to bathe, to attempt socialization, but he's really alone.
She waits outside the locked door, crossing her arms and pacing. An older couple is standing behind her, looking bewildered. She assumes they're Muggles.
The young wizard who opens the door addresses her by name, and checks her wand, even though he knows it like his own. He waves her in silently.
She finds his room mainly by feel, staring at her shoes the whole time. Twenty paces straight, ten to the right, three to the left. She stands on her toes to look in the window, and there he is, looking oddly naked without his glasses, sitting on his bed, staring at the wall. She taps the handle with her wand and it opens silently. Momentarily startled by the sudden movement in the room, he turns to her.
"Hello Hermione," he says after squinting at her for a brief second. He turns back to the wall and scratches at his scar absently.
She swallows and says, "Hi Harry."
*
"Hermione, I have to go."
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"If it was nothing you wouldn't have to leave in the middle of the night."
"Harry's scar is acting up again. Kingsley just flooed me."
"Oh. Be careful."
"'Mione, I'm going to check on my friend, not fight in some epic battle. Those days are behind us. I just want to make sure he's all right."
"Be careful anyway."
*
He drinks the tea she conjured for him without looking at her. "They let me have my glasses for an hour today, so I read a book," he says.
"Oh, Harry! Oh, that's wonderful! Tell me all about it." She's using her half-professor voice (the one everyone at the Ministry laughs at her for behind her back), but she's sure he won't mind.
"It was about abstract art. Do you know about abstract art?" He suddenly gives her one of his piercing looks, even though she knows he can't see her.
"Yes, Harry--"
"Abstract art is a Muggle thing. It was invented by a Muggle."
"I know, Harry--"
"It's like that painting with the burning cows, that's abstract art. It was invented by a Muggle."
"Yes, Harry, you said that alr--"
"Ron would know about abstract art."
She laughs despite herself. "I doubt Ron knows anything about abstract art, though if it has to do with burning cows, I think he'd like it."
He ignores her comment. "Do you know that painting? The one with the burning cows?"
"I can't say I do, Harry."
"Yes you do, Hermione." He glares at her again. "Ron knows about the burning cows, he told me you were going to see it on your honeymoon."
She sets her tea down slowly. She's used to his abruptness by now, but she's not quite sure how to handle it. "Harry, you know Ron and I aren't getting married--"
"Oh yes you are," he says, not taking his eyes off her. "He told me so. He said he had a ring with a tiny dragon inside the diamond and he was going to take you to Spain on your honeymoon. He said that Ginny was mad at me for not asking her to marry me."
She stares at him, open-mouthed. "Harry, when did Ron tell you this?"
He looks away. "I don't know," he says, and drains his cup.
*
"Hermione, would you want to wear a blue or green bridesmaid gown?"
"Ginny, if I were you, I wouldn't get my--"
"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport! I just know that we're going to get married and have lots and lots of--"
"Ginny, you know his scar's been hurting him?"
"Yes. So? He said it's nothing."
"I think it's a little more serious than he thinks."
"Well aren't you the smart one--"
"Ron thinks so too."
"...Roses! I think some nice roses would be just perfect, don't you?"
*
Ron is sitting at the kitchen table when she gets home after sunset, staring off into space, twirling a pencil between his fingers. The electric overhead lamp is abnormally bright, like the lights they use in police interrogation scenes in Muggle films her uncles used to watch when she was small. She sets her things on the counter, sits down next to him, and shuts off the light. She reaches out for Ron's free hand, and he gives it to her, willingly.
It's better this way, sitting in silence and in the dark, holding hands. She thinks how strange it is that darkness and silence are so closely related--not presences, but absences. Finally, Ron clears his throat and says, "How is he?"
"He's all right," she says, rubbing his hand with her thumb. "He asked for you."
He snorts. "Of course. He's used to me."
"He was talking about abstract art. Lost me about halfway through. Said you'd know all about it." She gives a half-hearted laugh.
"Well, we did go to that museum when we went to Spain last month. Saw this painting--a blue one. Artist's name started with a P. Pi--Picard. Pi--carey. Pi--"
"Picasso," she says, as though it were the first time she ever spoke the name in her life. "Guernica."
"Yes!" He is positively ecstatic. "Yes, that was it! That was--Hermione?"
She's left the table and is standing at the window, hand at her mouth. She doesn't want Ron to know she's crying, but he can tell, even in the moonlight.
"He went on about a burning cow, but I thought he was just talking nonsense. Oh God, I thought he was just going crazy."
He turns her around, holding her at the shoulders. "He is. But he's still Harry."
She collapses into his chest, and stares off into the darkness and the silence as her rocks her back and forth, back and forth.
*
"Hermione--Hermione, wake up. Hermione, we have to go."
"What time is it?"
"It doesn't matter. Just got an owl from Harry."
"What's wrong?"
"It's mainly nonsense, but I think he's in trouble."
"Let me see."
"Lumos!"
"Oh--oh God. Oh Ron, we have to go."
"That's what I said, now get your robes and come on."
*
She's worked out a whole schedule for who goes on what days: herself (and Ron, until now) on Monday, Kingsley on Tuesday, Fred (or George--though he can tell the difference somehow) on Wednesday, Molly on Thursday, Arthur on Friday, Ron alone on Saturday, and Luna on Sunday. (She secretly hopes that no one else ever wants to visit on Sundays because Luna is so good for him, she's seen it.) Others come and go, but she thinks he's come to count on those seven visits over the last four weeks.
Today is Tuesday. She hates going to work on Tuesdays, but she bites her tongue and sits at her desk and fills out the papers she needs to fill out. When people ask her how he is, she always says, "About the same," because it's true.
Kingsley usually goes on his lunch hour, so she's surprised when she feels his hand on her shoulder at half-past noon. She looks up from her work: he is tight-lipped and stony-faced.
"Hermione Granger," he says gravely. "Harry Potter wants you."
*
"You're the only one he'll listen to."
"Ronald, you flatter me."
"I'm serious, you and Luna. He doesn't listen to me anymore."
"I'm so sorry."
"I know he's in there somewhere, I just wish--I dunno."
"I know."
*
She runs up the corridor, nearly tripping on her robes, and there he is in the observation room, shouting WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA at the top of his lungs and pointing an imaginary wand around the room at imaginary objects. She watches him in shock for a moment, and then starts to laugh, hysterical and high-pitched. He hears her over his own shouting and grins, genuinely. This only makes her laugh harder, and she collapses on the floor.
A Mediwitch touches her gently on the shoulder, and she wipes tears from her eyes. Harry is still grinning at her, and he winks when he catches her eye again. She giggles one last giggle before the Mediwitch asks her, "What was that all about?"
She clears her throat. He steps out of the room on the arm of a very young, pretty witch, who hands him off to the Mediwitch. He takes a moment before he speaks, still grinning.
"There's a troll in the dungeon."
She takes his hand, then pulls him into a full hug, and she knows everything will be all right.
~
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